


The Canon Play

by violetlolitapop



Series: Perestroika [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, both parties are conseting, it's just not... comfortable, takes place in the 80's, the smut parts can be trigger worthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlolitapop/pseuds/violetlolitapop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America picks him back up by the front of his shirt with a shaking hand that doesn’t quit even with Russia placing his own over it. His eyes dart upwards, his own matching up with Russia’s.</p>
<p>“You’re still very young,” he says to America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Canon Play

He finds him among his own people. Which is only to be expected, really, even here in what should be the bowels of his own city. The little niches of traditionally kept neighborhoods are as abundant as ever, and America knew exactly where to look when the concern for the Soviet representative's absence grew with each passing minute of the conversation between their bosses.

So here he is, walking not so aimlessly in the crowded alleys and narrow streets running through buildings and small apartment buildings covered with letters he knows well and has come to hate in the years after the ending of a once well regarded friendship. He's been here for some time, and while in any other instance he may have settled for giving up and leaving the other to his own devices, he's unable to this time. He won't bother to acknowledge the reason why...

It takes another hour or so to locate him. He’s coming out of the back alley behind a rundown looking theater with the marquee in misshaped letters (some even hanging off center) and when they finally notice each other, he doesn't bother to turn away, to pretend he never saw him and walk off.

Rather, Russia comes to rest against the wall of a faded out brick building. He picks from the inside of this coat and retrieves a pack of cigarettes, picks one out and places it between his lips. America joins him. He brings out an old zippo lighter and offers it to Russia.

There's a pause of awkward tension between the two as they simply stare at one another with the small burning flame in between them. Eventually, Russia takes the light, bends himself forward that slight but and inhales slowly. A steady stream of grey colored smoke accompanies the quiet, only broken when America finally speaks.

"How was the show?"

A moment of silence.

"It reminds me a little of home."

"Just a little?"

"Everything here is still American. No matter how you look at it."

It's the opening to what could be the beginning of a deeper conversation, may even breach the subject of certain parts of them being similar, but instead it ends there with America saying, "Your delegates have been missing you.”

A sad smile.

“Is that right?”

“Just what they’ve been saying,” America says simply. He doesn’t know what the men really feel for the nation in front of him, he can try to figure what their tones meant, but that would be too much effort on a subject of which he should feel nothing.

Russia doesn’t bother to make much of that conversation. The pair stand leaning the wall, allow the cold radiating off the bricks to barely touch them through the thick material of their suit jackets. The street lights begin to flare up and come to life, around them people are hurrying off for their evening affairs as the sun begins to set. Both of them have places to be themselves. Neither one of them moves.

“I hear Poland's putting up a pretty good fight right now,” says America.

Russia exhales. His cigarette falls to the floor. It’s crushed beneath his polished shoe.

"He has always been a bother."

"Yeah, I bet..."

The crowd that has been lingering outside of the theater's opened doors begins to disperse. Some walk by the two, disrupting their quiet atmosphere with their passing presence.

"We should get out of here," says America.

Russia agrees.

Though how that translates to the two of them both ending up in same dark alley Russia has appeared from, neither one of them can be too sure. Yet here they are, with America's lip bleeding from where Russia has nipped it in what is too harsh of a kiss with too much teeth and too much pressure that ends with both of them pressed up against one of the back doors to the theater.

America grabs at the front of Russia's jacket, pulls him away from the door and further into the alley away from threat of being spotted. He pushes Russia back against the wall, presses himself close once more and captures his lips. America licks into Russia’s mouth, tasting the leftover smoke and hints of tobacco before sucking Russia’s own tongue into his mouth and bites down on it just hard enough to make the other flinch back.

“Despite all that is happening,” he says hoarsely. “I can still feel.”

“You sure as fuck don’t show it,” America tells him.

Russia’s laughter is fragile, far too soft and far too small to be genuine. “I showed too much the first time. I will go gracefully this time.”

“So that’s it then?” America asks and he can hear the anger tint his voice. “You’re just gonna let it happen? You’re not even gonna try and stop it.”

America hates the small spark of pity Russia’s eyes hold when he looks at him. He doesn’t hold back the punch that lands square on Russia’s jaw. The blow sends him flying towards the dumpster nearby. Russia does not retaliate, which only goes to piss America off more. Instead of how it would be before with Russia coming back at America, Russia doesn’t do anything.

America picks him back up by the front of his shirt with a shaking hand that doesn’t quit even with Russia placing his own over it. His eyes dart upwards, his own matching up with Russia’s.

“You’re still very young,” he says to America.

Then, without hesitation, Russia leans forward. He presses his lips against America’s ear and he places a kiss against his lobe and whispers. His breath is hot against America’s skin and it sends shivers down his back.

He pulls away slowly, just as suddenly as he had leaned forward and directs a smirk at America. There’s a challenge in his eyes and it causes America to falter before he growls and pushes Russia back hard. When he does Russia laughs. He laughs loudly and genuinely and there is pleasure in his voice when America descends on him and bites at his neck.

Russia cries out and throws his head back. His head cracks against the bricks just as America moves to step away. Russia keeps him still; he buries his hands in America’s hair, mussing it up and asking for more.

"Do you think this is gonna bother me at all?” America snarls against his skin. “That all this talk of you falling apart is gonna make me wanna stop just so you can catch back up to me or something? Why the hell would I wanna do something like that? When I finally got the leg up on you?"

America has a knee in between Russia’s legs. He spreads them apart willingly and allows America to settle in nicely between them. America has no problem in lifting Russia up; one hand underneath each knee, hooking them around his waist. He can feel Russia’s growing hardness and it excites him. Or rather… it relieves him.

This much hasn’t changed.

"Why on earth would you ever consider, that I would waste a thought on you?"

America’s voice grows strained with his own growing arousal. Russia brings him to press closer with the grip of his legs. It makes America lose his own and he ends up slamming the other into the wall with a bit of force as he tries to keep his balance.

He won’t lie; the friction hurts. The lack of lubricant and the only real saving grace while grinding against Russia fully clothed are the small drops of precum that fall from the tip of his penis but they are not enough. He distracts himself by trying to pull down Russia’s zipper and sneaks his hand in when he finally manages.

Russia bites down on his lip at first contact; when America reaches to touch at his hot flesh and takes him in hand. He doesn’t make a noise outside of a harsh deep breath and America tugs roughly at him in frustration. Russia yelps and America grunts into his ear while keeping pace.

"I don't think of you at all."

He's a goddamn liar and he knows it.

"This whole time- This whole damn time you have been so goddamn annoying!"

Liar.

“You can’t even imagine-! Just how glad I am gonna be to finally get. Rid. Of. You."

**LIAR.**

Russia thrusts himself upwards into America’s palm, slicking himself up well enough to make it easier and he reaches his orgasm with a shattering gasp with the last bite of America’s words. He tenses up and falls against America, and it feels as if he is torn between clutching at him tightly or pushing him away.

America makes that decision for him. He drops Russia like a dead weight and the poor man lads with a heavy thud on the dirty asphalt without so much as looking up. America steps back, he’s near ready to demand Russia compensate him – with his hands, his mouth, however – but at the sight of Russia’s quivering shoulders he’s made speechless.

At first he thinks that maybe he is crying, but there’s a gurgling sound at the back of Russia’s throat the spills out and reaches his ears and America’s breath is caught in his throat. It doesn’t take long for the strange sound to clear up and let it be known that Russia is indeed laughing.

Something low and strange before becoming the normal tone of giggles that the world is accustomed to before turning loud and barking. His head is thrown back and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, and America can only watch in awe at this spectacle. He doesn’t know what to do.

“You’re crazy,” he says and Russia nods happily.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, we are.”

Normally, America would say something to that, but he isn’t able to say anything at all. Not this time.

Russia is still laughing, or crying, or whatever it is, but America can’t take the scene anymore. It doesn’t matter that he’s half hard still and feels the fall of a knotted feeling in the very pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with lust. He turns and he runs, but he can’t still hear him.

He can still hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> -this was supposed to be posted the 2nd
> 
> -already screwing up my self scheduled updates and junk


End file.
